Little Hugh of Lincoln, what were his people thinkin’?
He’s a nine year old playing with a ball.
But the very first bill that his folks couldn’t pay,
Well that boy, do we need him at all?
And the very second bill that his folks couldn’t pay,
Oh that boy, we won’t miss him at all.

Hey, thought some in Lincoln, we follow what you’re thinkin’,
Played just right, this could help one and all.
For our pockets are all empty, and we haven’t got a penny,
Look, our bills also grow mighty tall.

So with sweet little Hugh, here’s what we will do,
We’ll toss him down the well one and all.
Whoever shall we frame? Why the Jews are to blame!
And I hear they possess quite a haul.

As for Hugh never worry, he’ll make Saint in a hurry!
And rich pilgrims will flock for a cure-all.
As for our dear town of Lincoln, (look at us, now we’re thinkin’!)
We’ll trade one sweet boy for a massive windfall!

Like this:

Eleven. Elf. Sweet eleven. The perfect square lacks corners and look, even the wool came back. Her best merino. So soft, no itch. It is cold in the ground. She knit, I circled, he was our whole world. So dark is destiny. But here, here is something. Not what I tried, but a gift still. Still a gift. No dark ground so cold. He is well, and breathing. Somewhere. Here. Peaceful. Resurrected, though not returned. I see him. I saw him. Curly, dark hair, I saw his face. I saw his face. She knit and I circled. My boy, my boy.

Follow me. Come on, follow. Follow follow follow. You know me, yes? Remember? Almost it. There you go, you saw me in your dream. I held up a watermelon for you to smell. Now follow, come away from that badger hole, nothing buried dead buried in there. Now. Is it guilt or shame today? What do you regret, action or inaction? I know that answer. They both have a face and you will see who. Look. I say, look. Lapwing you are. As am I. So a lapwing be. Let us bury your agenbite of inwit in a nice deep grave and lead each other away. I’ll teach you. I’ll show you how my sweet buzzard scavenger darling, you’ll fly and your foes will be beneath you as they every shall be. Word without end. Listen now. Don’t be Polonius standing behind a curtain, everybody can see your feet sticking out the bottom. You do remember what happened to him, don’t you? You think that bit of rag hanging over your conscience will protect you? Don’t you know anything about hiding? Listen. You’ve done things. We all know it. We see your clay feet. Your actions we all witnessed birthed reactions and those reactions reproduced. You bury the grandmother deeds all you like, and lead us all away. Hop hop away, little bird, follow me this way. Pay no attention to that world behind the curtain. But the things you didn’t do. Came to a whole lot of nothing, no? Well mark my words babylove, that nothing will be the something that buries you.

In the beginning was the world, in the end the word without end. Oh my heart, am I my mother? Fantasy. Just anima’s fantasy. Here’s how it goes; you’ve heard it I’m sure: there’s nothing naked under the clothing moon. But first, I’m all of a mucksweat. The day ins and outs of it born from a heart and nine months hard labor, but then coming forth of darkness and Orc’s away now! Nice, no? Every phenomenon has natural cause, even revolutions in the word. First, cause. Then I’ll be thy mouth given unto me! Fly as the hawk’s right eye! Free will! But watch out for the 32 feet per second per second. Oh that. What goes down must come. It goes the other way too. As below, so above. Rock becomes root becomes worm becomes serpent in the garden. Beryl was there, and the other rainbow girls. How’s that for gloomery glamory? Shall I be the toad on your shoulder? Come here, my Athos and warm me up. I’ll whisper little somethings right where the camel went through the needle. I’ll obey your every. I’ll be slave to your chic, Dave to your dick, and we’ll root in the fat of the land. I’m willing, now force me. Good dog.

I wonder if they have chocolates, I should have brought chocolates. Right. Ok. I’ll say, um. Hell. Somebody in there doesn’t want me here, I feel it. Check the hair, good, nice forelock. Stance. Left foot a little forward. That’s ok. No effect on posture. Kind of Egyptian. The light’s so confusing, I can’t remember. What was it that? I just had it in my head too. Damn it to hell. Ok, go ahead and knock. Or just go right in, it’s a party. I’m very fond of what I like and I love a party. I Shouldn’t have worn black; black makes me sad. Ok look, this is insane. I’ll just go in, make a swift pass and they’ll look at me with piercing eagle glances, won’t they? And they’ll say go, go, go, whoever you are. Should I go? I’ll go.

Like this:

It can’t be done. I won’t do it. You’ll need another architect, I can’t do this shit. What do you take me for? I’m no magician. Ok. Ok. listen. Just look at your plan here, 40,000 rooms and only 12 doors. In what universe does this make any sense: 40,000 rooms arranged in a perfect square, excuse me, cube. It will be hideous. No architect will touch it. A big ugly cube — it will look like a Wallmart. You want your new Bloomusalem to be a Wallmart? I mean, maybe we can do 200 x 200 rooms with tall ceilings, which might be our only shot at symmetry under the cemetery wall, but look how tall the damn rooms would have to be. The ceilings will have their own weather! Otherwise we can stack 34 or 35 but we won’t get anywhere near your perfect 40,000. Maybe we can get there with an octahedron, and make the sides 44 of whatever measure you like, in length. Close enough to 40,000. We can include an annex for the rest. But that brings us to another problem, how big is this place? Your plan uses stadia and furlongs. And cubits! Who measures anything with cubits? None of your numbers make sense. Seriously. What are we using to measure this thing? It’s a beast! You want cubits, fine. It’s your deal. But you have here each side of the cube measures 12,000 stadia. That’s four million nine hundred thirty three thousand thirty three cubits. So a cubit being 1/1000 the distance the earth rotates at the equator during one second of time, we are talking about the length of about an hour and twenty minutes of Earth’s rotation. What planet are you on man? Do you know how big that is? By the time I even get the foundations laid (12 foundations? Dude!) the Earth’s rotation will have slowed down enough that we’ll have to redefine the length of the cubit. And then what, we start over? And with what work force? Who is building this thing? Where are they going to live eat shit? Schools for their kids? Hospitals? Food? We’ll have to build a new Bloomusalem just to house the people who will build the new Bloomusalem, which will require Bloomusalems for those builders recursive to no end point. I’ll take the lake of fire. Really. I’d rather have a good eternal swim in the lake of fire. I don’t want any part of this. Find another contractor, I’m out.

Hey turn that light on, will you? No, not that one. Over here. Closer. Don’t be scared, I won’t bite. Hard. You’re shivering. Come warm up. Now about that light. There, that’s the one. Let’s get you from all that potentiality into something a little more actual. That’s better. Now hush, I need to listen to your body, your movements. No don’t speak, don’t speak. Just do a little dance or something. I want to know you. Not what you can tell me with your tongue, but on that subject, show me your tongue. Go ahead. Stick it out. Ah. Aaaah. There. Like a gift. Now I see you. Spin around. For me? Give us a twirl. There you go. Nice structural rhythm, I see your whole form now, in all your entelechaotic glory. Stretch out your hands. What’s that you’re saying, you hungry? Thirsty? A jug of bread maybe, no? You held your hands in intersecting planes, so I thought I’d ask. Must have been your head tilting back. Move a little closer. Near the mirror, I want to see your structural rhythms. No not that one, the convex. That’s it. Diverging, you are. All that light outwardly reflected. And that imaginary focal point, well done there. Good. Good to get a bit of distance on the subject. Don’t worry about the distortion, we’re all distorted. You know that, don’t you. Don’t have to tell you. Walk closer to it, approach the sorcerer’s eye, ah, not so fast! There now. Now you are looming over yourself properly. Difficult to do in company, but you seem to have the hang of it. Good. Now move very slowly, slowly I said! toward the concave. That’s it. See that? Go back a bit and do it again. There stop! Focus. See, you’ve inverted. Nice, no? Wait, where did you go? Oh there you are! Well what do you know, light camoflauges you. Look at you! Very interesting. You appear to define your boundaries by motion. Makes a nice contrast between yourself and your background. I do like that in a, well, whatever it is you call yourself. What are you anyway? A flasher? Searchlight? I know, aurora borealis! No? Too chilly? But you’re shivering. Oh no. I see you now. Can’t be. The stagnant fumes arising. That glow. No. Go. Go now get out. Go. Ga Giest! Firen! Fyr! Fyr!

Like this:

Who? Who? Are you blue? Oh its you, my little gnome. I should have expected you, darling, here between evil and deliverance. No no, come back here. I see you, come out. Lurking around your lair. Peering from your warren. Adorable. Don’t want to be seen here do you? Too many danger signals? Oh sweetheart, come dance with me, with all of us. Just a minute I have to take this. Si? Espera, mi amor, y yo estaré contigo. Alrededor detrás del establo. Sorry about that. You waited! Oh my love, dance with me. What’s that? Oh sweetheart, don’t you see I can’t hear you? Please, my soft soul of flowers, don’t be mislead by appearances, my eyes are larger than my ears! Let’s dance together ’till we’re dead or cured. Doesn’t matter which, gnomey, same difference really. Ah but what’s real here you want to know? This is the dance of delusion, my onliest, my lovey, my luring bird of Eden. We’ll tango through miserileading doors, and side with fuguist appearances. So how’d you get here? Must have been Elijah’s horses. Here, hold my pen. Let’s unhitch them, shall we? They’ll dance with us, they dance too you know, then my eagle will bring us a leg of a duck and we can insert it directly into our bodies. You’ll be delicious my diminutive one, my pigmy, my sweet smiling pestilence, my swan. We’ll bathe in my cauldron (mind that bubbling lead!) and emerge nice and clean and refreshed and as beautiful as a many colored bow and oh I see, you’re a bit stunted. Well, I’ll hold you up. Not a problem. And then and then

God: Ok, hold. Vitus, you’re far off script, and did you just take a call?

Scene: [In the house that Jack built, you know the one, where comes the fire that burns up the staff, that beat up the dog, that bit the cat, that ate up the goat — the one my father bought for two zuzim, in the house that Jack built. In the house that Jack built (Conference Room C, Holy Mother Public Relations Inc.) Eve, Mary, Peter Piscator, Joseph the Joiner, and William Haley celebrate the sudden – at – the – moment – though – from – lingering – illness – often – previously – expectorated – divorce of Adam and Eve.]

William Haley: [Filling cups, some decline but Mary is front and center. No surprise there.] Friends, let us raise a glass to this occasion of Eve and Adam’s postcreation. Here’s to Eve who is like a flame of many colors of precious jewels, to Adam

Eve: Do we have to toast to Adam?

William Haley: To the vicar of Rome and of Bray, and to all our deceased friends who are more really with us than when they were apparent to our mortal part. And to

Mary: [Thirstily] Here here!

[All quaff from their mazers]

St Bernard: The cake is delicious, Peter, did you make it yourself?

Peter Piscator: No. No, no. I got it for a song. Just a penny pippin.

Joseph the Joiner: Really? It looks like it would have set you back at least $50. Although I find it a bit subsubstantial.

William Haley: None of that Mary. Tonight is for Eve’s happiness, which has wings and wheels. Miseries are leaden legged and their whole employment is to clip the wings and to take off the wheels of our chariots.

Eve: That’s beautiful, William. Did you just come up with that now?

Peter Piscator: No, no. No. That sounds like he stole it from what’s his name, that devoted rebel. You know, the enthusiastic hope-fostered visionary.

William Haley: You are quite wrong sir, and you injure me in your so saying. But I shall ignore you. A blight never does good to a tree and if a blight kill not a tree but it still bear fruit let none say that the fruit was in consequence of the blight.

Joseph the Joiner: Let’s not Mary. Last time you ended up in bed with a pigeon.

Mary: That was a rumor started by Leo Taxil. Please. What’s it to you if I knew God or I didn’t know God or if I had a pregnancy without joy, a birth without pain, a body without blemish, a belly without bigness. You want to know if I still have a hymen? Come and look!

Joseph: With will will we withstand withsay.

Mary: Oh for the love of Christmas somebody hand over the cake.

William Haley: For as man liveth not by bread alone, Mary, I shall live although I should want bread. Who is that hiding under that table?

St. Bernard: Mary! Mary! You are the mother of the word incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me

William Haley: We can’t get rid of him. Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions. He like us all is the word made flesh. Get rid of the flesh and he’ll become word for all eternity connected to us all as by navelcord to navelcord entwining back to Eve.